All my love, Uncle Al
by mrsjamesspotter
Summary: Albus Potter writes a letter to his niece whom he may never know after seeing a birth announcement
1. Chapter 1

Dear Sophia,

I wish I knew the proper way to begin this, or if there even is such a thing…I read about your birth in the Daily Prophet today. It's been a week to the day since the event, and this is the first I'm hearing of it. It crossed my mind to owl your parents and congratulate them, but I'm sure the last address I have for them is terribly out of date. And I believe that your mother and father uses a cell phone more than an owl. It is easier to maintain too. It has been years, _years_ since we last spoke. Your birth was a powerful reminder of how sorry for that I am.

I don't know if you'll ever see this letter. I'm not really sure why I'm even bothering to write. It will be years before you can read. And I'm certain if I sent this, if I even had your address, your parents would make sure you never saw it. But I felt compelled to do something when I saw the piece in the Entertainment News section.

_Sophia Claire Potter…eight pounds, two ounces with her mother's hair and her father's eyes…the family is ecstatic, and mother and daughter are resting comfortably. _

The family. I wonder who that means, nowadays. Is it just the three of you? Or is your mother's family still around? Are we the only ones at a distance?

I don't know if your parents ever told you their love story, if they ever will. Or the story of how our family fell apart. Those two things are so intertwined that for a long time I didn't know if I'd ever be able to think about one without despairing the other. I often wonder if your parents are able to think back to the beginning of their relationship, or if the memories are too sullied by the mushroom cloud that swallowed us up back then.

But I wanted to put it all on paper. So that someday, maybe, you will see it. You will know where you came from. I've thought about that a lot in the past nine months, watching your mother's pregnancy splashed across the pages of every tabloid that crossed my path. Because with time and introspection, I've become able to see it much more clearly. I've become able to think about your parents and their great love without despair, for them or for our family. And it is a great love, Sophia, and you should grow up knowing that.

When your Mum and Dad first met, it didn't seem like a particularly auspicious occasion, or at least, not to me anyway. I never had a chance to ask your father what he really felt that day. We were too young, too busy, too blind, perhaps, to communicate about that before everything fell apart, before it was all too far gone. Please don't misunderstand me; your father was immediately taken with your mother. But back then, when he was only 19…he was taken with all kinds of girls when he first met them. And even then, your mother was a woman, not some flighty teenage girl. So it seemed impossible to me and your aunt Lily that this could be anything other than a passing fancy. We assumed it was just a harmless crush, or maybe a slightly less than harmless game of cat and mouse, a way to entertain himself, to distract him from his everyday life.

You see, your father was a bit of a ladies' man back then. Much more than any of your Weasley uncles or I, your father had the kind of confidence and charisma that immediately attracted female attention and he knew how to use that. I don't mean that in a disparaging way. I'm just stating that for the record, so that maybe you can understand why we didn't see it. Back then, your father was a merciless flirt who enjoyed the company of many girls. He was always falling into and out of love at the drop of a hat, on occasion reeling girls in and letting them go when he tired of them, like it was a sport. I know, I know, that sounds terrible. But we were just teenagers then and it all seemed harmless. We had so much to learn of love...

It turns out your father was learning right before our eyes, and we hadn't the foggiest idea that it was happening.

To be completely honest, I'm pretty sure I was not the only one who didn't see the greatness of the moment: your mother seemed unimpressed at first too. It was summer and we met her in a meeting at the press conference our team's manager had called. At the time, she was working for a marketing company that the team had hired. When she entered the room, your father was immediately kicking me under the table, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as if to say '_check her out_!' I couldn't argue with him, she was most certainly beautiful, with all that red hair tumbling over her shoulders and those big blue eyes, rimmed in smoky black. She was different than everyone else in the room as well, younger by at least 10 years, more enthusiastic about her work too. She was exciting to be around…

What I mean to say is that I know what your father saw in her. But I was only 18 at the time, and too obsessed with quidditch. And a twenty-five year old woman with whom I was supposed to be working didn't exactly seem like fertile ground for a relationship. So really, the thought never crossed my mind. Perhaps that is why I could never understand how it had crossed your father's.

But your father instantly turned on the charm, ratcheting it up to ten thousand percent. Your mother, she seemed immune to it all. To his hazel eyes and his coy smile and the constant, playful teasing he aimed in her direction. In fact, I think she was a little bit annoyed with him overall. She was trying to conduct a meeting and he was trying his darndest to distract her. She was not having it.

When the meeting ended your mother remained all business. She shook the hand of all the team members, including me, wrenched her hand out of your father's aggressive grip, and exited the room without another word or even a backward glance. I think your father was flabbergasted; women did not react that way to him, _ever_. Especially not once he turned on the charm. Whatever the case, whatever he felt, he jumped up out of his chair to follow your mother. I do not know what he said—he never told me—I only know that he came back so quickly that I know he could not have gotten the response he was looking for. And yet, he remained undeterred. In fact, I think he was only more interested by her lack of interest.

"I'm going to make her like me," he said. At the time I didn't think much of it. I don't think anyone did. We just laughed at him. He was just being James, used to getting his way and always having what (and who) he wanted.

It would be weeks before we saw your mother again, at another meeting, and by that time I'd nearly forgotten your father's determined proclamation. I assumed he had too. Boy was I wrong…

But that's another story for another time.

All My Love,

Uncle Al.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Sophia,

I just saw your first photo. Or, should I say, your first professional photo: the kind that gets published on the cover of Witch Weekly magazine. If I know anything about your mother, it's that she's been photo-documenting your life from the very first moment it began. Although, to be honest, I don't think I know very much about your mother. And certainly nothing of substance. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing these letters. I'd be holding you in my arms.

Anyway, the papers were right, you have your mother's hair: the dark red, which was way prettier than the Weasley red. But they did get one thing wrong: you don't have your father's eyes. Yours is much greener. No, you have my eyes, your grandfather's eyes. The bright green almond shaped eyes. I suppose, though, it's easier to suggest that your eyes came from your father than it is to say "She has her long estranged Uncle Al's green eyes." It's a pity you didn't get your father's hair too, it would've made you a proper Potter then.

I must admit I watched your mother's pregnancy from afar, faithfully checking the tabloids for scraps of news. Three months of rampant speculation followed by six months of photos of her ever-growing belly and articles examining every stop she made in Diagon Alley's many baby boutiques.

I couldn't help myself. We've all regretted what happened between us, but anger like that is hard to escape, to silence, to walk away from. Repairing the damage between us has always seemed like an insurmountable task—even at my most willing, regretful moments. So the distance remains. And the tabloids are all I've had.

But back to the story at hand. The beginning and the end of everything…

The second time we met your mother, your father was prepared. I knew something was up when he spent more time than usual—and let me tell you, that was no small feat—in the bathroom getting ready that morning. We'd been having matches and training non-stop since the last meeting and we were all exhausted. Your dad emerged from the bathroom looking fresh as a daisy and I knew something had to be up. We were wondering whether he had stacks of illegal potions with him or something.

It wasn't until we apparated to the offices that I figured out what was going on. We were about 15 minutes early and by coincidence, your mother was entering the building at the very same moment. She looked pretty pissed off, and frankly, I was more than happy to stay out of her way, but your dad did not seem at all deterred. He walked right up to her and I watched she nearly jumped out of her skin when he began talking before she even noticed his presence. Her entire coffee ended up spilled down the front of your father's outfit.

Instead of falling to the ground, groveling and apologizing—as I'm relatively certain your father expected her to—she punched your dad on the shoulder. Hard. The look on his face was priceless, I still remember it. Suddenly the tables were turned. I don't even know what your mother said to him, but he just stood there staring at her back, mouth agape, as she strode to the elevator bank. Then quickly he jogged over to our coach, spoke for a second, and turned on his heel to run out the doors. I had no idea what was going on until he entered the meeting about five minutes late, bearing another huge coffee.

"You think you're so charming, kid, and you're not," she hissed at him as the meeting began. I was seated on his immediate right and heard every word.

"Who are you calling kid?" he was indignant.

Under their breath they bickered through the rest of the meeting. Up until that point I'd never met anyone who could argue as long as your father could. She was so visibly irritated with him—her back drawn straight and her shoulders taught—I'm not sure what gave him the impression it was wise to continue speaking to her. And yet, continue he did. He was un-phased by the rest of the meeting occurring around him, apparently viewing it as nothing more than a minor interruption to the steady stream of pithy comments he was arranging in his head. I could easily see why your mother was so frustrated by him. About halfway through the meeting even I wanted to clock him.

When the meeting ended, once again your mother left without a word. She'd tossed her final barb just as we were closing the meeting, and before your father could get a word in edgewise she was walking out of the room, chatting with a co-worker.

As we stood to leave, the look on your father's face was strange, twisted into an unfamiliar expression. By that time, I'd spent so much time with him that I was pretty sure I could read him like a book. This was a look I'd never seen before. I considered it for a moment, but the thought never crossed my mind to ask your father what was going on. By that point in our relationship, it was just easier to assume things. So I simply chalked it up to the newness of the experience. I couldn't recall ever seeing your father rejected by a woman. Let alone one he was so intently pursuing.

"Al? Party tonight right? These blokes are hosting it" Adam, our seeker said as we prepared to leave.

Your father's face lit up, "Amazing. She's going to be there tonight. I am _so_ in," he said.

"Mate, she can't stand you. Did you see the look on her face? Get with it," I admonished, shaking his head. "Besides, she's like…twice your age, that's just gross."

We all thought he was crazy. He was so lost in thought I don't know that he even heard a word I said.

Your mother did, indeed, attend the party. And your father followed her around like a lost puppy. She didn't seem to take notice. After a few drinks, a new side of your mother emerged. Her body seemed to move differently, her hips more languid, and her eyelids heavy. I could tell what was about to happen long before your father could, and in a rare moment of compassion, I attempted to distract him as she moved closer and closer to the tall blonde she'd been talking to for most of the evening. Your father was the only one shocked when their lips met.

As I guided him away from the scene, I thought for sure your father had finally given up. I could not have been more wrong.

"That guy is an idiot," he remarked to me. "She's wasting her time with him."

"Because you're obviously a much better candidate," I said, rolling my eyes at him. "You're nineteen." To me, that seemed to be all the evidence necessary. He was barely an adult. But she was a fully-fledged adult, obviously uninterested in your father, and gravitating toward other actual adult males.

"Doesn't matter. I know I'd be so much better for her."

"No, you know you can't have her, and that's the only reason you want her."

When your father didn't answer, I took that as proof that he knew I was essentially correct. I hoped, then, that he would drop the whole subject entirely. Little did I know that I'd only succeeded in making sure that he dropped the subject when he was around me. I'd only succeeded in turning the whole thing into some huge secret.

I'm sure you're wondering where the great love story is in all of this. I promise it's there. I just thought it was important to share it all, even if the beginnings were less than romantic. Maybe as a way of explaining myself. Or of explaining it to myself. Putting this down on paper has made the whole thing so much more real to me.

We missed it, Sophia, your father's entire family and friends missed the beginning of the thing. We were so busy laughing to ourselves about how silly and stubborn your father was being. Thinking it all a great ruse as he continued to pursue her. Just a way for him to pass the time and stroke his own ego, assure himself no woman could possibly resist him no matter how hard she tried. We were so busy with what we wanted to see that we couldn't see what was really happening.

I think that's why we would later mistrust your mother and her intentions. We were too blind to see what transpired between them, couldn't understand it or believe it was anything real. Not when all that we'd ever witnessed was so…trivial.

And yet, there wasn't a moment we witnessed that was as trivial as it may have seemed. It was the beginning of a love so strong that your father was willing to sacrifice his family for it, his career for it, the entire life he'd known…all to be with your mother.

All my love,

Uncle Al


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Sophia,

We were so busy back then. Your dad was the star player and our team was only weeks away from being included in the World Cup and we were always on the move, playing on average six to seven matches with every team all over the country. Sometimes we didn't even get a full day off during the week, between practice and the promotion work and the interviews and photo-shoots. We'd gotten so wrapped up in the machine that there didn't seem to be time for anything else. I've been using that word a lot in these letters, _seem_, but back then so much of our lives were structured around appearances. We had mastered a game that was much more about what you looked like than it was about who you really were.

By that summer there was so little privacy in our lives it was hard to believe in the possibility that we—your father, and I—could have secrets from one another. There were the press, following our every turn, making mountains out of molehills. And there were the tabloids, lying in wait for any chance to make Everest out of the Adirondacks. And then, on top of it all, there was quidditch. I don't know if you'll ever experience the life of a quidditch player, but it's pretty uncomfortable, especially with half your family and friends on the team. You couldn't sigh without everyone on the bus asking you what was wrong. And yet, your father was keeping a big secret, the biggest secret possible…he was falling in love.

That summer there was one last meeting with your mother scheduled. This one took place in a restaurant near to our stadium. Your mother waltzed into the restaurant in a billowing, wildly printed dress robes and huge sunglasses and I can still remember hearing your father inhale sharply at the sight of her. This, of course, struck me as ridiculous. Just weeks earlier he'd stood next to her, fighting for her attention, only to watch her kiss another man.

She was looking down, furiously typing on that muggle death machine when she entered, and the moment she put it down, your father was quick to wave her over to the table with the biggest smile I'd seen on his face in ages. Her expression didn't change as she wove between other crowded tables on her way to join us; she did not crack a smile or wave in return. Looking on, I couldn't understand your father's behaviour at all, but he remained, as ever, undaunted. I couldn't believe that proving himself to _any_ girl would be worth the repeated rejection, let alone this girl. To me, winning the war, so to speak, was not worth the wounds he'd sustain through the battles. And yet, for your father it seemed like sport. He appeared to be actually enjoying the chase.

When the meeting ended your mother was, for the third time, cordial but professional and she excused herself as quickly as possible. She left the very first moment she could, citing a long walk through the park back to her home office. I suppose your father took this as some kind of invitation, because he leapt up from the table not moments after your mother left, and without much word he ran out of the restaurant before anyone could stop him.

It was hours before your father returned to the apartment, only just barely on time to grab the portkey for the ride to France. He said nothing of what occurred while he was gone and the look on his face was, once again, strangely unreadable. He spent most of the time lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling quietly. Even after repeated (heated) questioning, your father revealed nothing. This was a side of him I was _completely_ unfamiliar with. At that point, it seemed like your father was always talking, always over-sharing, always on. I found it exhausting. I often longed for silence. But this silence…I should have known better, should have known something was up. Instead, I took this new behaviour—uncharacteristic silence, unfamiliar facial expression—to mean nothing good happened while he was gone. It wasn't until much later that I would learn I was wrong.

Your father's strange, new behaviour only continued from that moment: he grew more and more unfamiliar with each passing day. And none of us seemed to have any insight into what was going on. None of us could break through. This was uncharted territory in our relationship, as a team and as a family.

The timing was terrible, I suppose. The games were still moving at breakneck speed. We were all exhausted, beginning to lose touch, and struggling to relate even when we were together. Things felt different then, today I'd even say things felt awful then, but we just chalked it up to stress and exhaustion. It was the easy answer and we didn't have time for anything else. So we pledged to slow down just as soon as the final game of the season ended. We paid a lot of lip service to 'getting back to ourselves.'

It was around then that your father began to disappear for days at a time. Sometimes it was just mental and emotional absence—he'd hole up in his room and refuse to emerge. But sometimes it was physical, sometimes when he left us we literally had no idea where he was. We were all so angry with him. With the way he was acting, with the lack of commitment we felt he was showing to the band, with his insensitivity. The anger was overwhelming. I see now that the anger was, once again, the easy answer. It required no thought, no sensitivity, and no investment of our time.

Your father never gave us much in return, vacillating between reflecting our empty anger in kind and simply ignoring us. There was no communication—not of any value at least—just a lot of yelling. The fighting was bleeding over into every aspect of our lives. Before we knew it, we'd begun sleeping in separate hotel rooms.

Before we knew it, our entire lives were different. We were too busy to acknowledge this. And everyone around us—all so heavily invested in our career—was quick to offer plausible excuses for each and every change. We began to believe those excuses. We began to live the lives that had been laid out before us, no longer charting our own course.

These changes, so universal in their nature, began to obscure the details. We only saw the forest, never the trees. Looking back, I realize that it was probably the only way we could get through our days: denial. So we stopped investing our time in anything that seemed like minutiae, and by that time, if it wasn't a show or an interview or a taping, well, it was minutiae.

Still, the biggest thing in any of our lives was there, bubbling beneath the surface, not long from boiling over. And none of us knew it.

All my Love,

Uncle Al


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Sophia,

Frankly, back then none of this seemed possible. Perhaps, like many things yet to come, we should have seen the writing on the wall. It was there all along. It was slowly but surely being revealed to us, and like too many other things around us then, we missed it. Or maybe we chose to ignore it, because ignoring it was easier. Back then we could tell ourselves nothing was as bad as it seemed. Back then, even the fraying around the seams didn't seem like it could be fatal.

We knew things were not right. We knew we were not ourselves. We had known it for weeks, for months. But we began to skim coat the uneven surfaces instead of repairing the crumpling studs. And everyone always made sure things looked so beautiful, so smooth and even and strong. We'd moved from believing we would '_get back to ourselves_' once the tour ended, to pretending nothing was wrong. And we'd gotten very good at believing it. We'd gotten very good at buying into our own PR.

And then the season ended, and things did settle down. We decided, mostly at your father's insistent urging, to spend our time off in Godrics Hollow instead of London. He thought it would do us well, he said, to 'really, truly get away from it all.' Deep down, we all believed he was right.

And early on, things did seem to come around…not instantaneously, of course, but we did begin to tear down the damaged drywall and repair the studs. Slowly at first, and in stages, we began to feel like ourselves again. We began to communicate again. Perhaps that's why we never noticed the failing foundation.

After a few weeks at home, your father began to tell us the story of his last few months—his months of exile—and the burgeoning romance with your mother. He admitted things to us carefully…giving us the story in pieces, withholding always. The story he told always focused on the plot-lines, never the characters. This was an inconsistency we didn't notice. We'd grown just far enough apart that I missed what ran between the lines. We believed that he was telling us everything, and the look on his face after a letter from your mother was enough for us to believe in his genuine happiness. We did not question him. He was, in his own words, in love. And deeply so. Despite all the things we managed to miss, that much we could see.

At first, we stopped questioning your father when he began disappearing again for days at a clip. It felt different then, perhaps because we thought we knew where he was going when he left for London. At first, it did not seem odd to us that no press photos ever appeared to give us any indication of what he was doing in the city, or who he was with. We knew he was with his girlfriend. For a while, that was enough. We filled in the details on our own.

It took easily two months, but eventually we began to wonder about this woman we never saw, this woman your father spent so much time with, so anonymously. Eventually we began to inquire more directly about the woman for whom he left us behind with increasing frequency. Initially our questions were awkwardly avoided. But with growing intensity we continued to badger him, unsatisfied with what he offered. Eventually even your grandparents became restless, curious, frustrated with your father's hesitancy to share with us, to say too much. Even your grandparents began pressing for answers. And eventually, your father had to begin telling us more about your mother. Eventually the plot-line of the story was no longer enough. We wanted to be introduced to the characters.

So he began by telling us the major details. She lived on her own in London and went to Hogwarts (she was a Ravenclaw), she'd grown up on Sheffield, and she had a younger brother and two parents who were still married. She was smart, and beautiful, and wrote fiction and poetry and studied Irish Wizard History. She'd travelled abroad and worked for the family business. She was athletic and artistic and bold and loud and had a great sense of humour. We could see nothing wrong with this situation.

But by this time, we wanted to meet her. We couldn't understand why your father kept her from us, this woman who was so wonderful. And it was at that point that your father had some serious damage control to do. Because even though he'd never specifically lied to us, he'd left out enough important details to make us feel as though he had. He'd chosen his words so carefully that they could be seen from two angles, as the truth and as a lie.

"She's…older," I remember him saying at the dinner table, softly and almost reluctantly, the night before she was to come to our house for Sunday brunch.

"What, James?" your Grandmother asked, calmly, as though she simply had not heard him.

"Ash is older. She's…she's twenty-five," he looked down at his fork, "and…" he stalled, fork scraping around on his plate.

"And, what, James?" his approach, his visible reluctance, raised your Grandmother's defences. Something felt wrong. Something was wrong.

"You know her," he said, looking up, "you've met her. She's the girl who worked for the team with the promotional stuff."

Suddenly it all clicked into , who worked for the team. The redhead.

"The girl who ignored you?!" Your grandfather gave voice to my thoughts, my mind racing back to every discouraging encounter your parents had ever had.

"What does a 25-year-old woman have in common with you? How could she…what does she want from you?" Her voice rose. I cannot accurately describe the look in your grandmother's eyes as she spoke; it was some combination of shock, betrayal, anger and loss. It overtook her instantaneously. The whole room shifted with her.

"Nothing, Mum, she doesn't want anything from me. She loves me. I love her. That's it." He was no longer hesitant. The words rung out strong, the look on his face set.

From there, things went downhill. Drastically, fantastically. Things disintegrated as the reality of your mother revealed itself to us. Maybe it was the way your father handled the situation that turned it into a fiasco. Maybe it was the way we (his family) handled the situation. In the end, it was probably a little of both. In the end, it was definitely a symptom of how damaged we all were, how much the seams had frayed. The garment was barely holding itself together anymore.

Looking back, I suppose we made a lot of mistakes. The first of which was not noticing the changes in your father. The quiet, steady maturity that had crept in without a word. The devotion, focus and composed demeanour that had become his every day. The shift in his vocabulary. Maybe if we'd seen these things, we would have believed in your parents' relationship before it was too late. But back then, all the lying made things seem outsized. The lying was all we could see.

The lying allowed us to believe there was some terrible reason to keep their relationship a secret. We could tell ourselves your mother was manipulating the situation to keep things silent. Convince ourselves she knew that what she was doing was wrong and that she was obviously in the relationship for all the wrong reasons. We allowed ourselves to believe your mother was manipulating your father. As though he didn't really know what love was or couldn't possibly grasp the concept. As though she was selling him a false bill of goods. As though neither one of them were capable of truly loving the other: your father too young, and your mother too backhanded. If only we'd seen…

Questions. There were so many questions, and to us, none of the answers felt sufficient. For whatever reason, we did not want to believe it could be as simple as it was. That your father had fallen in love at first sight. That your mother succumbed to his pursuit, to her own growing feelings. That they loved each other more deeply than either could verbalize.

_What did they have in common? What did she want from him? What was she getting out of it? What was wrong with her, that as an adult she pursued a relationship with a teenager? What could he possibly see in her? Wasn't he just entertaining himself, trying to pursue her? How could it possibly have become a relationship when it started out as a game of cat and mouse? Why did they have to lie? Why did they have to hide it from the world? And worse, why did they have to hide it from us?_

So many questions. And in our minds, every answer inadequate. Every answer a lie.

It did not occur to us, at the time, that your mother could have done everything possible to stay out of your father's public life for any reason other than to avoid censure. It did not occur to us that she could possibly have had absolutely no interest in his public life. It did not occur to us that she insisted upon secrecy, not to protect herself, but to protect him and his career. That you parents were slow to reveal themselves because they needed to be sure of things—of their relationship—before they shared it with the world. It did not seem possible that they had kept secrets from us because we had forced them to, because they feared our reaction. It did not occur to us that we had pushed them away.

Your mother did come over for brunch that Sunday after all. We were determined to hate her. We held our questions high, like castle walls, and kept the drawbridge closed. We interrogated both of your parents mercilessly about their relationship, about their intentions, about their lies. We believed nothing. We saw her, always, as a pariah. We painted her as a death eater in the wings, as a threat to a life we believed we had earned. We did not notice all the things we had lost sight of. Like love, and family, and who we used to be to each other.

It was awful, what we did to your parents, what they endured. All your mother ever wanted was for us to accept her and instead, we tortured her. We forced her to prove herself to us, and refused to accept what she offered. She tore her heart out and offered it to us on a platter, and we spat on it.

In the end, we asked, nay, _demanded_ that your father choose. Your mother or our team. Your mother or our family. It is a day I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write about. A memory I fight every day to erase. The single most selfish day of my life.

Your father chose your mother. He loved her that much. He walked away from one of the planet's most famed wizarding families and one of the most famous upcoming quidditch team. He walked away from his career path. He walked away from his family. All for love.

That was the last time we spoke. Lawyers handled the end of the team who had no heart to play anymore. Therapists handled the end of our family. And we handled nothing. We simply walked away.

All my love,

Uncle Al.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Sophia,

I wonder if anyone will ever see these letters. And if anyone does see them, I wonder if they'll be able to read past that last letter. I cannot count the number of times I have wished to have those moments of our lives back. To be able to make them right. All we would have had to do was shut up. Silence. It would have saved our family. Now, I think, we are beyond saving.

The truth is, from what I know of your mother today (which is precious little, to be honest, pieced together from a million profiles and articles and interviews), she would have made a wonderful addition to the Potter family. Or, should I say, to the Potter family as it existed then. She is a part of the Potter family today. A new Potter family, your Potter family. One I am not a part of.

But oh, if only. If we had given her a chance. If we had listened to your father. If, if, if. But it's true. If we'd stopped for a moment and listened instead of just demanding more answers…well, I know we would have loved your mother. We would have loved your mother and your father together. This is probably the worst part of it all, the hardest to admit.

We don't speak of your parents in our family…when we are together it is as though they do not exist. As though we have erased them from our collective memory bank. Which is impossible. I am sure that everyone else does just the same as I do and follows your family privately.

I remember the photos from your parents' wedding. They, too, were on the cover of Witch Weekly magazine. It was the Christmas time. I'd never seen your father look so happy in my life. The cover photo was a candid—despite the fact that your mother looked directly into the camera through lowered eyes and thick eyelashes, a small smile playing on her lips. And your mother's unfixed gaze could have burned a hole through anyone who viewed the photograph. Your father, arms wrapped around her from the side, rested his forehead against her temple, kissing her cheeks lightly. He wore a smile to which my words will never do justice. So bright. So real.

_James Sirius Potter and Aisling Grace Barrow wed in London on a crisp December evening surrounded by their friends and her family. Potter, who famously parted with his quidditch team and family for his love, found the evening particularly poignant._

"_We're beginning our own family now," he said, wistfully, as he kissed his new wife's knuckles. "I've been looking forward to this since the moment we met two and a half years ago."_

_She blushed and looked away, smiling but embarrassed, stunning in a voluminous, architectural crème satin gown._

I saved that article. Just like I saved the one about your birth and your first photo. A scrap book of memories I have missed out on. Memories that could have been mine.

Your father left our family and never looked back. He did not make a single pleading letter. Did not make any statements to the press that gave even the slightest hint that we could reach out to him again. Maybe, in the end, it was best for him.

He and your mother lived in neighbouring London apartment buildings for the next 2 years because she did not believe in living together until they were married. They were, instead, as close as they could be. _Joined at the hip_, your Grandmother would say. Over the course of those two years it became increasingly rare to see a picture of either of your parents alone. The photographs seemed to tell a story of two people falling ever more deeply in love, becoming more entwined in each other's lives with each passing day. I cannot remember a single bad picture, a fact which for years made me even angrier at them both, at what damage I perceived that they had done to my life. It is only recently that I have gained some distance, some perspective.

Over the course of those two years (and even still today) your mother's marketing and business savvy combined with your father's talent and innate stardom have lifted his career to even higher heights. He has been more successful without us—his brothers, his team—than he had been with us. He was immediately scouted by the Falcons and he is now on the international team. And your mother stands beside him always, quietly supportive, but uninterested in the attention naturally cast her way. It turns out that she was not, as we had suspected, using your father for her own gain. She was, instead, supporting his career always.

That is not to say that your mother hasn't been successful herself, as an individual. In fact, she has been extremely successful. And just as you should grow up knowing your parents love story, you should grow up knowing that your mother is a powerful, talented and respected businesswoman—a role model in her own right. It's just that her successes have lead to more successes for your father. Her business is his business and vice versa.

Your mother and father, they truly are a family business, and it has allowed them to come together in ways I'm sure many husbands and wives (famous and non-famous alike) must envy. They have both flourished as a result; they are both in demand in their respective professions. And at the end of the day, they always come home to each other. They are a modern partnership. They are a modern love story.

I envy them. I have not yet experienced a love like theirs. I fear, often, that I never will. That I will suffer some kind of cosmic punishment for my behaviour towards your parents.

I pray every day that I will be as lucky as they are. I pray every day that somehow, someday this will all be over. That I will know you, and your family, again. These are things I do not expect.

All my love,

Uncle Al.

PREQUEL POSTED!

CHECK OUT "MY PROMISE" (second in series. it covers the story of James and Ash from the beginning)


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